


Dysphoria

by TwinkieFever



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Dysphoria, FTM, Gender Dysphoria, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Trans, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 06:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13358625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinkieFever/pseuds/TwinkieFever
Summary: This fic doesn't have any higher purpose other than being an outlet for my saddest feelings so please keep that in mind instead of looking for some hidden meaning or smart plot.This fiction adopts the perspective of a character named Angus. He is a transgender man pre-everything (at the moment). In this fic, Angus has a fit of dysphoria as he looks at himself in the mirror.





	Dysphoria

**Author's Note:**

> TW: fic about dysphoria, can be triggering.  
> I will probably develop Angus' story in a series of flash fictions :) Anyway, I hope you'll like it! Don't hesitate to leave me comments and/or suggestions.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: the cover image is not mine. Also, this is a work of fiction and any similarities with reality is an accident. Keep in mind that English is not my native language. Finally, this fic may be triggering to people suffering from dysphoria and I apologise in advance for that. I love you guys

It's not a fairytale. Real life is hard, and sometimes your dreams hurt so bad that you can't even stand it. But what is his dream, exactly? It sounds almost selfish. Angus has everything one could ever want: a job, a home and a loving family. And still, he's complaining. A snarky voice inside his head whispers him that he's probably faking his problems because he doesn't have better things to do. He's standing there like a fool, in front of his mirror, and then the truth catches up with him. His reflection taunts him and he remembers why he's in constant pain, all day, everyday. The usual inspection begins and the young man dreads this moment as much as he craves it, for some weird reason. 

His features are always the first thing he investigates. A face he knows all too well. He sees it all the time but never seems to quite recognise it as his own. It's nowhere near bold enough to feel believable and he glares at it, disappointed. Well, look at it, for fuck's sake! He overplucked his eyebrows in the 00′s and no amount of eyeshadow can make them look bushy. He knows, he tried it more times than he can count and always ends up looking like some cheap Cara Delevingne wannabe. Moreover, his chin is so pointy he could stab someone with it. It makes him want to glue some fake beard on it - but he would never do that, oh no, because he wants the real deal. Real hair and everything. In sum, his face is long and narrow, way too fragile to be masculine, and it drives him crazy.

Like this isn't enough, Angus can't help himself but to follow the curve of his scrawny neck and fall further down. It's inevitable, it's everyday. His eyes fly over his bare chest and he feels like there's an anvil somewhere in between his lungs. He's wallowing in agonizing apathy, his heart pounding once in a while to remind him that he's alive. Barely, though. On this unesthetic chest two mounds of fat are looking him in the eye. They're mocking him. These little fuckers don't fit, they are misplaced. Slowly, the young man stretches the few muscles he has in order to appear more impressive, but it doesn't work very well because he doesn't have the build that goes with it. Resigned, his gaze continues its long and painful journey across the no-man's land that is his body. The road ends on his hips, his stretch-marks ridden nemeses, the worst ennemies he ever had. Angus hates them because they never let him forget about what society decided for him at birth. Well, people can say what they want but he doesn't feel it. He just doesn't.

His plump lips let out a sigh. He tries something different this time because he needs to look forward. He puts his hands on his chest and tries to hide the object of his inadequacy. He turns, places his body sideways so that his hips don't look so round and welcoming. He can't see himself as he really is because his skin doesn't play along. His eyes are getting wet with desperation. The young man finally gets dressed as quickly as possible, sensing that he won't be able to look at himself one minute longer. But even his clothes are inappropriate. He can't change his old habits because people are not aware of his true identity and he doesn't want them to freak out. Thinking about that paralyses him, fear creeping inside of him like a mischievous creature, eating every last bit of hope he's got left. Nothing's right. Not his body, not his relationships, not his identity. He sits on the bed in front of the mirror and buries his face in his too delicate hands. What will they say? Will this be considered a "phase"? And if taken seriously, what then? So many questions, so few answers, and he's left alone with his grief, like every night. A few weeks ago, he discovered his true identity. Since then, everything changed. It changed because he finally knows why he never fit in, never belonged. What was the numbing pain he always felt when looking at other men. The ache, the longing and the jealousy he did not understand. It changed because he knows something can be done about it and it hurts because he can't do what needs to be done just yet. It will take time. And every minute spent in that closet, with those pronouns, is a torture that never really stops.

A buzzing in his pocket wakes Angus up. The only friend who knows what's happening to him wants to make sure he's okay. In his message, he calls him "dude" like it's the most natural thing in the world and it warms the young man's soul. "Dude". It makes everything looks brighter, better, in comparison to the swirling black hole of despair Angus is trying so hard to crawl out of. His friend doesn't know it, but he saves his life every time he calls him "dude". As usual, though, the eyes can't stay away from the mirror much longer and what seemed like a glimpse of hope vanishes instantly. The reflection doesn't care about his feelings. Yes, he is valid and his friend is always there to remind him of that, but one more look at his body makes a tear runs down his golden cheek. The phone is crushed between those desperate fingers that can never achieve anything. Angus knows he is a man but the path he has to travel to finally recognise himself in that pesky mirror feels long and tortuous. Every time he makes one move, the road lengthens, potholes and roots make him trip and fall and the meager accomplishments he managed to make so far actually seem irrelevant. 

Here, standing in his bedroom, Angus doesn't know what to do. He's not entirely himself yet because the world doesn't acknowledge him the way he would like it to and his friend's help is not enough. The clock on the nightstand warns Angus that it's time for him to go to work and he lets out a sigh, motionless. Another day at work, another stream of wrong pronouns and patronizing comments. His heart sinks a little bit further down. Finally, the young man leaves the room as he puts his phone back in his pocket. Two opposite feelings tear him apart as he walks out: a rush of affection for his friend who's always there when things get rough and a feeling of intense, numbing sadness that will never go away until he's able to fully transition.

The door closes. One day, hopefully, everybody will see the man Angus truly is. 


End file.
